Just Imagine

I don’t know what the Boston Marathon will look like next year. But I’m confident it will be better than ever.

The first time I ran the Boston Marathon, I thought I had discovered Camelot. That changed soon enough. Maybe I grew older and wiser, maybe more cynical. Probably both.

But one thing has never waivered: On Marathon Monday, I would rather be in Boston than anywhere else. Anywhere. And nothing that happened on 4/15/13 has altered that feeling. In fact, it has only grown stronger.

I was 18 in April, 1965, when my father piloted our Nash Rambler to picturesque Hopkinton. He slowed at the town green and I rolled down the window. Across the street, I saw bright yellow forsythia blooms against perfect white picket fences. "Old John" Kelley warmed up in a maroon Harvard top, while three Japanese runners in Rising Sun uniforms performed calisthenics in unison. (One of them, Morio Shigematsu, would win the marathon that day.) I had been running for just three years, devouring every book and article about the Boston Marathon, memorizing tales of its great champions–Clarence DeMar, Les Pawson, "Tarzan" Brown, and the two John Kelleys–the way I had stored facts about Ty Cobb, Babe Ruth, and Ted Williams in my Little League days.

Still, I was overwhelmed by the color, energy, spectacle, and international flavor. I was in love.

Three hours later, near the 21-mile mark (I'd never run that far in my life), I kept asking spectators, "Where's Heartbreak Hill? Where's Heartbreak?" No one answered. This scared me. I'd read so much about Heartbreak that I'd pictured an unclimbable Everest. I plodded on for another half mile, veered to the road's edge, and focused my eyes on a middle-aged man: "Where's Heartbreak Hill?" I demanded. "How much farther?"

He paused, a puzzled look clouding his face. I wondered what was wrong with these daft Bostonians. Then came the reply: "You just passed it." Oh sweet, transcendent Boston Marathon, I thought, where Mt. Everest turns out to be a molehill. Boston was magical, no question.

From Hopkinton to downtown Boston, this year's Boston, on 4/15/13, felt much the same. The weather was glorious, nothing like the previous year's steam bath, and a happy throng of 23,336 piled into Hopkinton. On the 45th anniversary of my 1968 Boston victory, I believed I was ready for the every-fifth-year pilgrimage that has become my custom. Now age 66, I had friendly pacers at my side, and cheerleaders–my wife, daughter, and brother–on the course. My sister and cousin would be waiting at the finish line; they had tickets to the grandstand seats.

Everything went as planned. My little team fell into a comfortable rhythm, hoping for a 4:30 finish, and we saw the family crew at five points en route. In Wellesley, I collected a long-overdue allotment of coed kisses, three. Most fun I've ever had in the Boston Marathon. So now I can share an important running tip that's never been revealed before: It's easier to kiss at 10-minute pace than at five-minute pace.

I've never seen bigger, louder crowds at Boston–a surprise. Given our start in the third wave, and the speed of the elites, more than two hours ahead of us, I expected nearly empty sidewalks. Instead, the crowds seemed bigger, happier, and more vocal than I had ever seen. If other runners were enjoying a similar day, and I felt sure they were with the wondrous weather and surpassing support, then this figured to be one of the best Bostons ever.

We hit halfway in 2:12, had no problems in the Newton hills, and eased down Heartbreak through Cemetery Mile. Beacon Street felt endless, but then we chugged up the bump at Fenway Park and spilled into Kenmore Square, passing the "25 miles" and "1 mile to go" signs in short order. I joked with my pacers, John and Megan Valentine, that we should primp for finish-line photos. Ahead, a few drunk college students spilled into the road. We had seen others in the last five miles.

Wait a minute. Those weren't college students, they were runners–at first a knot, then a collection, then a bewildered, amorphous mass. I recalled the 1970s, when inept Boston officials couldn't process finishers fast enough, and runners had to stand in line for a quarter mile to reach the end. That made no sense today–not in 2013, not with .7 miles still to go. I looked at my watch: The running time was 4:19, the actual time 2:59 p.m. We hadn't seen or heard anything.

My cell phone rang, my wife. I figured she wanted to congratulate me. "There's been an explosion at the finish line," she said tautly. "The race is over. Don't try to keep running. Get back to the hotel." I don't always do what she says; this time I followed orders. I peeled off in one direction, John and Megan went another way. We were staying in different hotels.

I still didn't know the extent of things. Didn't know that two bombs had exploded. Didn't know that they had gone off just before 2:50 p.m., or 4:09:43 on the third-wave clock, a number now frozen in running history. Didn't know that people were dead and injured.

But I did understand instantly that the Boston Marathon would never be the same.

What would it be?

You have to run Boston, a supreme privilege, to understand why it is unlike other great world marathons. Yes, it is the oldest, consecutively run marathon, dating to 1897, and yes, it is the only event of its kind that you have to qualify for (charity runners aside). But more than that, it's the spectators, generations of them. Fifty years ago, when the Boston Globe printed all our names in the paper, spectators would bring copies to the curb and call out each and every runner's name as we passed. (There were few of us back then, with plenty of space between.) The crowds were knowledgeable, too, steeped in Boston's vaunted history. They knew that Heartbreak Hill was named for a famous John A. Kelley–Tarzan Brown exchange, and that no Olympic Marathon champ had ever gone on to win Boston until Gelindo Bordin finally broke through in 1988 (Olympics) and 1990 (Boston).

When you ran Boston, you felt a respect and admiration that runners garnered nowhere else. In other races, we were often mocked. Boston welcomed us, honored us. Boston's regard for runners has only grown through the decades, magnified by its delight in New England stalwarts like Bill Rodgers and Joan Benoit Samuelson.

Nowhere else does a Major League baseball game begin in the morning, but in Boston the multimillionaire Red Sox stars play second fiddle to the 99.9 percent amateur runners. The Sox start at 11:05 a.m., so postgame fans can stream onto Beacon and Comm Ave. to greet mid- and back-of-the-pack runners. The intermingling of these two sports produces a wondrous, strange brew. "In a city where history is ever present, the annual fling between the Red Sox and the Boston Marathon is as traditional a part of 'Bahstahn' as Indian pudding, political corruption, and parking tickets," says Richard Johnson, curator of The Sports Museum of New England.

The power of Boston's almost mythological status reaches far. Runners feel it and react to it everywhere. On April 16, 2013, in Naknek, Alaska, 300 miles from the nearest paved road, some 20 students and adults gathered for the season's first outdoor run. They wanted to show their support for everyone in Boston–everyone, that was the key word. The Boston Marathon had broken through the wall limiting all prior marathons, making them just endurance contests, and become an event with worldwide social significance. Naknek wanted to join the wave. "Normally when we run outdoors here, we carry bear mace to protect ourselves from brown bears," said local teacher, Ginger Moore, a 4:40 marathoner. "That day we focused less on our fears, and more on our strength. We wanted to be Boston Strong, even way out here."

A similar spirit spread to the massive London Marathon six days later, where the race began with a moment of silence. Many runners wore black ribbons on their singlets and put their hands on their hearts as they finished.

The Big Sur International Marathon was held 13 days after Boston, and 3,000 miles away. I was lucky enough to be there for the fourth time; it never felt so much like an East-coast event. Some 350 Big Sur runners had signed up for a Boston 2 Big Sur "double." Many wore Boston's blue and yellow colors all weekend. The group included 70 who had been prevented from reaching the Boston finish line. Big Sur assured them they were still eligible for the special two-marathon medal. According to Big Sur's registrar, Sally Smith, three or four prospective doublers canceled, frazzled by their Boston experience. Dozens begged to take their slots.

Bostonian Ron Kramer, one of Boston Race Director Dave McGillivray's most trusted lieutenants, was named honorary starter. He stood on a modest platform above the start and kept his remarks brief. "Let's have a moment of silence for those killed and injured in Boston," he began. I've never witnessed a marathon crowd so still, so quiet. He closed with: "And now, a booming cheer for Boston's first responders, the volunteers, and the spectators." Hoo-rah.

Then a flight of doves was released, as is traditional at Big Sur, and the race was on. Later, Kramer strolled the finish chute for hours to welcome the runners again. "A lot of them said the race was really tough, but they felt they had to do it for Boston," he noted, adding: "Nearly all said they wanted to return to run Boston next year."

Three days after 4/15, President Barack Obama flew to Boston for a memorial service. It was just four months since a similar service in Newtown, Connecticut. The poor guy has become our counselor-in-chief. Obama, of course, attended law school at Harvard and may have witnessed a Boston Marathon during those days. If not, he spoke with impressive authenticity, sounding just like one of us, especially here:

"Even when our heart aches, we summon the strength that maybe we didn't even know we had, and we carry on; we finish the race. We finish the race, and we do that because of who we are, and we do that because we know that somewhere around the bend, a stranger has a cup of water. Around the bend, somebody's there to boost our spirits. On that toughest mile, just when we think that we've hit a wall, someone will be there to cheer us on and pick us up if we fall."

Truth be told we always knew that Boston and other marathons represent what the FBI calls "soft targets." You can't secure the entire length and width of a marathon route, and history will have its way with us. In 1918, World War I forced cancellation of the Boston Marathon; it was replaced by a military relay. Bombs, shootings, and violence have violated the Olympic Games: dozens dead just before Mexico City in 1968, 11 murdered Israeli athletes at Munich in 1972, and the explosion at Atlanta in 1996. Near the end of the 2004 Athens Marathon, a defrocked priest bulldozed race leader Vanderlei de Lima off the side of the road. De Lima recovered, but fell from first to third.

It now appears certain that the Tsarnaev brothers didn't intend to attack the Boston Marathon; they held no grudge against runners. They originally planned to explode their pressure-cooker bombs on July 4. They sought a crowd of people in a big public space, nothing more. The date moved up only because they found the bombs easy to assemble.

We can't change that the media will forever refer to the "Boston Marathon bombings," but we should be firm in understanding and explaining that the brothers didn't attack the marathon. Rather they meant to disrupt the American right to free, peaceful assembly in public places. Like sidewalks, parade routes, parks. The brothers didn't aim to injure runners. They wanted to scare the crap out of everyone–not just Bostonians, but all Americans.

We runners are lucky to have an in-place, fear-fighting exemplar: Frank Shorter. In 1972, Shorter won the Olympic Marathon in Munich just five days after Palestinian radicals massacred 11 Israeli athletes in the Olympic Village. Shorter didn't just win the Olympic race; he ran the last 17 miles alone at the front. If there were any more terrorists at large in Munich, Shorter was the easiest, most symbolic target to be found. How did he keep his cool?

He was–he is–a runner (see page 136). He had trained to endure.

Frank Shorter's attitude was almost universally embraced by runners after 4/15. Every fun run, club run, local 5-K, and marathon found a way to honor Boston. Many sold wristbands or T-shirts with all proceeds going to The One Fund Boston, which exceeded $29 million by mid-May. Local Boston-area races saw a surge in entries, and Google searches for phrases like "qualify for the Boston Marathon" rocketed upward. People who have never broken 15 minutes for a mile declared their intent to run next year's Boston, as did former Boston champions who had thought their 26.2-mile days well behind them. When I ask my friends, it seems they all want to run next April; you've heard the same from your running buddies.

All this despite the Boston bombs coming hard on the heels of the New York City Marathon cancellation last November. The two disruptions have almost nothing in common, other than sobering and random coincidence. In New York, thousands of runners arrived from around the world, largely unaware of New York's physical and emotional damage from Hurricane Sandy. (Hell, even Mayor Bloomberg misjudged the situation.) The runners believed the marathon would help heal New York, as it had after 9/11. Instead, an ugly "us versus them" scenario developed, with runners called selfish and self-centered.

There was no "us" and "them" in Boston. It was a shared experience among runners, spectators, and the larger community. All parties rallied together with amazing resolve.

What are we marathoners then? Small-minded, self-promoting egotists, or paragons of virtue? There are no answers here, no universal truths. On average, we are neither better nor worse than our neighbors. I'll hazard only this: We don't like to sit on the sidelines. We like to take part. We prefer action to inaction. We prefer to run.

I don't envy Boston organizers the tsunami that has struck them: bombs, deaths, and devastation, quickly followed by unprecedented popularity. How many would like to run Boston next year? It's impossible to say, but runtri.com, which analyses Boston Marathon statistics, received visitors from 3,500 cities in more than 100 countries when it ran an article called "Qualifying for Boston 2014." Its editor, Raymond Britt, estimated there could be 250,000 runners who want to enter.

On May 1, three Runner's World editors, myself included, had a 45-minute conference call with Dave McGillivray and Boston Athletic Association executive director Tom Grilk. We asked pointedly about next year's race, particularly the registration process and field size, but they sidestepped us. "It's not just our decision," said Grilk. "Others have an enormous stake in it." He meant the eight towns and cities on the course, and the state and national agencies involved.

When we noted that Boston accommodated more than 36,000 runners in 1996, before wave starts and improved timing systems, they replied, vaguely, that other things have changed since. For years I had assumed that Hopkinton wouldn't allow another Woodstock on its front lawns. Now I believe it is more complicated than that, with public-safety officials playing a major role. We live in a post 9/11 and post 4/15 world.

This won't and shouldn't stop the rallying cry that's reverberating all around us: "We did it in 1996, we can do it again." New York had seven weeks to prepare for its 2001 marathon; Boston will have had 52.

In recent years, it has become fashionable to say we are "born to run," a conceit I largely support. However, it has been applied too narrowly. We were not born to run in one pair of shoes or another (or no shoes). We were not born to eat one perfect diet. We humans cannot be defined so narrowly; our diversity is our greatest strength.

Ultramarathon great and biologist Bernd Heinrich, Ph.D., got it right in his book, Why We Run. Heinrich agrees we were born to run. But the secret, he argues, is not that we can trot along under a hot sun. No, the genius lies in our ability to visualize–to imagine–that such activity might lead to an important goal. We don't run primarily because we can, or because it feels good, though both might be true. Rather we were born to run with imagination and purpose.

Paleolithic runners pursued antelope with visions of a steak dinner. Today we run to score a soccer goal. To lose 10 pounds. To finish a 5-K and then maybe a half-marathon. To raise funds for good causes. We run long and persistent, hoping to one day complete 26.2 miles. Or, why not dream big? Imagine that you could qualify for the Boston Marathon.

You won't, not if you can't imagine it.

Our imagination is our greatest human talent. Our imagination and our optimism. John Lennon knew this, and wrote the song. Somehow 8-year-old Martin Richard, who died yards from the Boston Marathon finish line, had a similar burst of imagination. He drew a crude crayon picture with the words: "No more hurting people. Peace."

Thanks to Frank Shorter's resilience and Martin Richard's imagination, we know that we will recover, we will run again, we will return to Boston. When we do, it will be a day such as the sports world has never seen. Next April's Boston Marathon, no matter its form and size, will be more than a race, more than a celebration. It will be a lovefest. And yes, I know my inner hippie is showing, but what other word says it all?

The Boston spectator crowd, already the world's best, will be larger, more welcoming, and more wildly enthusiastic than ever before. Forget the "Screech Tunnel" at Wellesley College. Next year the tunnel will last 26 miles.

Though dwarfed in numbers, we runners will outshine the sidewalk screechers. It will be our day to thank Boston for 117 years of support. We'll leave flowers and thank-you notes on the picket fences and front steps of Hopkinton. We'll kiss so many Wellesley girls the town will run out of ChapStick. On Heartbreak Hill, we'll run backward to show the gathered generations how their cheers lift us. We might even hoist a beer with the drunken college students.

And we will save our best for last. That is our credo, after all: Run negative splits. Start slow, finish Boston Strong.

On Beacon Street, on Commonwealth Avenue, on Hereford Street, and especially on Boylston Street, we will swoop from side to side, high-fiving everyone in reach, applauding wildly for our Boston friends, saluting all with countless cries of "Thank you. Thank you."

Thank you for being here today. For always being here. Thank you, especially, for being here last April, and opening your hearts to so many of us.

We know you were wounded. We know how you suffered. But you came through. You pulled together, all of you–victims, bystanders, doctors, first responders, police. You reached out to each other, and pulled each other up, until you reached your finish line. You did yourselves proud. You did us all proud. You were simply magnificent.

Marathoners love to streak across the finish line in a burst of glory. Why not? It's a long road, and a short final yard.

But next year will be different. Next year on Boylston Street, we will pause. Fifty feet in front of that big, bright swath of paint on the road, we will stop in front of Marathon Sports. It took owner Colin Peddie seven years to find this location, the best in runnerdom. He got lucky. Others didn't–those who stood there on 4/15 for only one reason, to cheer for us runners.

Some of us will raise our eyes, hearts, and hands skyward. Others will sink to a knee. Some may choose silence; some will sing hosannas. Many of us will cry.

But we will all stop. And only then–after we have paused to reflect and remember–will we move forward to walk slowly across the finish line. The line that shut down at 4:09:43 on 4/15/13.

This April's Boston Marathon was the most tragic day in the history of running. Next year's Boston, on 4/21/14, will be the most glorious.